A Chump in Africa

by Philip Habegger

Africa: the land where men are made. Only the tough can survive in such an unforgiving place. With fearsome, snarling creatures and mystical people, Africa is where the brave and adventurous go. Guys with wild beards, earthy clothing, and really expensive gear from REI come to prove their ability to conquer Kilimanjaro. They come to show how gnarly their gnarliness is on the wild Zambezi. Men walk around barefoot and without insect repellent so they can get strange parasites like hookworm and Malaria and then take expensive medicines to treat it just so they can go home and perhaps one day in a manly conversation say something like, “Oh yeah, well I had Malaria once. Beat that.” Dudes come to arm-wrestle aborigines in studly contests of manhood (that doesn’t really happen, Seth and I just wish it did). Africa weeds out the spineless from the vertebrates.

Or I guess that is what some think about Africa. Maybe that’s what I thought. I’m not telling. But I sure have learned my lesson since I’ve been here. There have been plenty of experiences that I have had thus far in Zambia to remind me that I am not Matthew McConaughey. In this post I will try to outline some of the more savory ones, even though every day is a reminder from God that he is the real tough guy, the one with all the power.

My family has a really cute nickname for me, “chump.” I have grown up being called that, not in a “my family likes to hurt my feelings” sense, but in a “Phil, you are in actuality a chump,” sense. Chump, per my family’s definition, is something like: “He who acts, smells, and looks like a monkey.” It goes along with the definition of chimp really. During my time here I have observed the misfortune of chumphood follows me still, partly my fault for being excessively goofy, partly fate. You can take the doofus out of America, but he is still a doofus in Africa. I really just think I have seen Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls too much.

The first hardship that befell me (besides the curry fish on the flight here) was the international travesty of my misplaced luggage. I call this adversity “international” because my bag was sitting in Amsterdam somewhere, whereas I was in Lusaka, Zambia. I just knew that this would happen to me. If you, the reader, had heard any tales of the smelly boy who did not shower for two weeks at HUT, then just know that that is the same boy who didn’t have his luggage for two weeks at HIZ. At first I was all like, “Yeah! This will be so hardcore!” Then by the end I was more like, “Jeremy says my bag is coming tomorrow”, and I said this for about five days straight. After two weeks with one pair of pants, two t-shirts, no contacts, and no toothbrush, I was quite glad to wear some of the six other articles of clothing I brought in my suitcase (just kidding, I brought more like nine total), stop wearing glasses, and still not brush my teeth. It was a humbling experience not to have those things that I was expecting to rely on. Just try and look cool when you are dressed monochromatic. My dad had this to say regarding the incident, “My theory on the suitcase is this….. What did your suitcase have that the others did not? Rabbit skins.”

The second suffering I faced is one we now affectionately call “Potato Eye.” So I just woke up one morning, and I couldn’t see out of my left eye. I wasn’t too worried because sometimes you get goop in your eye or sometimes your eye gets a little tired just after waking. But I knew something was up when my roommates starting asking, “What is wrong with your face?” and then they erupted into laughter. It was pretty bad. My left eye was completely swollen and huge. It wasn’t an allergic reaction or an infection or a black eye. My eye just decided it wanted to dominate my face for the next three days. If trying to be chic whilst monochromatic for lack of clothes was a struggle, then trying to have dignity with an eye that looks like a dollop of mashed potatoes is like fighting Ninja Turtles for pizza. The faces on those who passed by were priceless.

Then there was the time I got cornrows. I thought I was looking pretty tough, pretty thug, but then I was informed by the locals that only girls got their hair braided. Men have shaved heads. Got some weird looks for this one too. Then there was feeling like I had a squid constantly squeezing the juice out my head. I also suspect the Malaria symptoms I felt the day after I had the three hour basket weaving on my noggin was somehow related to the squid. It may not have been the best decision to get cornrows, but it’s all in the learning process.

As you can see, I have received my small dose of humbling experiences here in Zambia—some my fault, some happened because that is how life works. Africa is just like any other place; it’s not just the home of elite big game hunters, adventure seeking Rastafarians, or baby-crazed college drop outs. It’s the home of goofy people like me who make mistakes like everyone else. The craziest thing, in my opinion, out of all of this is the fact that I wouldn’t trade these experiences for anything. Not because they make good stories, but because I learned really valuable lessons. And that is what is so important about cross-cultural experiences. God can use the miscommunication and unfamiliar ground to teach us—God taught me that he is God and I am some silly, naive kid who thinks he is the coolest thing since sliced bread. God taught me that when you pray for humility, you will get it, and probably will not like it. Proverbs 16:18, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” I am just glad that God saw it fit to humble me in such minor ways. God is such a wise and good father; I am grateful that he rebukes us before we go too far off the deep end. He loves us so much that we do what he can so that we may stay in communion with him. Paul tells us this in 2 Corinthians 12:9-10:

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

I, too, rejoice in my infirmities and my calamities because in those I am reminded that God is the one who empowers me.